Timed

If life were embedded on a clock, one would have twenty-four hours to live. Life is balanced by the weights of choices made by one individual. If one were to mess up, they would be punished. If one risked their valuable choices, they then wait for judgment by the heir of the throne. An individual, such as Sir Johnson, was deemed unacceptable by the prestigious society that had ruled over certain parts of Europe for centuries. One, whom exists after committing a crime, will receive a higher power of death: torture, and morphed into the being they were always meant to be.

The stone door was covered with uprooted stems, cascading towards the ground and created an intertwined circle. The sound of thunder rolled in. A tall, slender man stood in front of the door. A briefcase that was made of pure, hardened leather was clutched in the palms of his sweaty hands; his face was mashed inward, and his mouth hung open.

His knocks were carried by the deepened breeze. The door creaked open, it yawned as it revealed the room behind it; he stepped through the open door, immediately scanning the room with his blue eyes to find it empty. Dust covered hung paintings, an old clock and an old phone.

The man was shook up, and was breathing heavily. The room began to turn. Everything around him was turning. His body had rocked back and forth, and his feet had made a step backward. He missed a collision between his head and the edge of a solid gold doorknob on his way down to the cold, marble floor. His eyes fluttered, trying to focus.

He then blacked out.

When he woke up, it was the dead of night. His vision was back to normal, but he couldn't figure out where he was or how he got to the place he was in.

"Hello," his voice was heavy, "is... is anyone there?”

There was no reply.

As he sat up, the pain in his back forced him to hang over from the ground. The lights above him flickered on, there was no one by the switch across the room. Suddenly, a voice came from the corner furthest from him.

"Welcome. I am the late Ruler and you..." the voice faded off, letting suspense hang in the air, "are part of the Elders' Prophecy."

"What do you mean?" he choked out against the pain in his body, "pl-please. I don't understand. S-stop this... I can't-" he cried out, unable to continue as the late Ruler lingered in the corner.

The shadow of the late Ruler smiled. "The transition has just begun.”

Agony took over the man’s body, leaving him unable to speak as the shadow eyed him like prey.

"Smile, Sir Johnson, for this is the last time you will see me," the late Ruler spoke up, eyes screaming with excitement as he backed away, "farewell, old friend."

Sir Johnson's skin broke away from its barrier. The stone beneath him absorbed the skin quickly and built a silver shield around him. A new face was created, and joined at the neckline of his transformed body. Johnson moved his head to the side once more as a tear trickled down the newly formed cheeks, leaving his once blue eyes.

The ruler had chuckled slightly, eyed his new masterpiece, and walked out of the room, nonchalantly marched down the corridor towards the skyline on his balcony. The skyline had overlooked miles and miles of statuettes. Each paraded a distinct display of his enjoyment of sacrificing the lives of his brotherhood.

“Sir,” a man had approached. His hand clasped around a metal object. “I don’t think you can get away with what you have done.” His voice croaked, nearly shaking with tension.

The wind grew stronger on them both, causing an uproar of rain to pound the two men in the face. The rain had begun to blind the men, causing them to step into the shade, so they could see each other better. Both were drenched with rain, and thunder roared with excitement. The man with the metal object dove onto the Ruler’s back, his knee positioned deeply in, pressure began to sting the middle of his spine, and nearly caused internal bleeding.

“You haven’t won,” the Ruler had said through clenched teeth. “It was my destiny to destroy those that did not protect the out-” his face was smashed into the ground by the piece of sturdy metal that had laid in the man’s hands for too long.

The Ruler gasped, his last breath was drowned out by the rain that had continued to pour down. The young man had risen; his arms were shaking, eyes open and were now in a state of bewilderment.

“What have I done?” he questioned himself.

He turned, he had noticed something shocking. The Ruler was rising into the sky. He had started to turn into dust. Each part of him crinkled until he looked like small spectacles of dirt. The wind had carried him, whistling a short tune and then disappearing.

“I hadn’t realized it until now,” he observed from afar at what was left of the mess. “I killed my own blood… My own childhood bond… My own forsaken chance of becoming whole at the throne.” he threw himself to the ground, trying to grasp at what he had done.

“Please bear with me,” he sighed, whispering to the wind, and what was left of the Ruler, “I only did what was best for us as a society. Not for the throne.” he had lied. His words had stung with poison as he hissed the last rotting word out of his mouth.

He had trudged off then. Through the house, and out the Maplewood door he went. Covered in the last bits of rain until the castle was out of sight, and he was long gone from the community.